


The Invitation

by Sleepswithvillains, Tishina



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, First Kiss, Flirting, Fluff, Inquisitor Crew Cameo, Misunderstandings, mentions of past slavery/abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26806111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sleepswithvillains/pseuds/Sleepswithvillains, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tishina/pseuds/Tishina
Summary: Darth Imperius was a puzzle. More than that, she had a knack for flustering Intelligence Chief Fiona Quinn. Not outwardly, of course—she was too experienced in Imperial politics to let it show. But what did she want from Fiona?Then one night, the Sith Lord dropped by with an invitation and a gift.
Relationships: Female Sith Inquisitor/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 30





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a collaborative work with Tishina inspired by OC Kiss Week, and it was so much fun!
> 
> This is an AU starring Zastelar, Tishina's Sith Inquisitor from [Dance in the Shadow of Honor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10752810/chapters/23841861) and Malavai Quinn's older sister Fiona from [Helplessly Hoping](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24245788/chapters/58424977).

Fiona Quinn stalked back and forth in her office, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

The doors slid open and Minder Three entered, looking a little sheepish. It wasn’t a promising sign.

“Well?” Fiona asked. “Have we received the incarceration records?”

“No, Chief,” Minder Three answered, rubbing the back of his head with his hand. “Darth Mortis’ office hasn’t responded to any of our requests.”

Fiona pinched the bridge of her nose and then took a slow, deep breath.

“The report is due next week,” she hissed. “ _How_ am I supposed to complete a report for the Ministry of Law and Justice when the _Minister_ of Law and Justice will not provide me with vital information?”

Minder Three’s mouth opened, closed, and then opened again, his brow furrowed.

“It was a rhetorical question, Minder,” she said with a wave of her hand. “No need to strain yourself,” she muttered.

“The Dark Council has been in chambers for much of the afternoon, Chief,” Minder Three said, “perhaps Darth Mortis will address the request once the session is over.”

 _And perhaps the Dark Council will resign en masse and crown you Emperor_ , Fiona thought, but kept her mild treason to herself. It was difficult not to be frustrated with the seemingly incessant meddling that Imperial Intelligence endured from the Sith.

“You may return to your post, Minder Three,” she said, waiting until the man was gone before pinching the bridge of her nose once more.

Why couldn’t Darth Mortis be more like Lord Zastelar? The Mirialan Dark Council member _always_ got her anything she asked for without complaint, though never without doing her best to fluster Fiona. She was uncommonly reasonable, for a Sith. It almost irked Fiona—the woman refused to fit neatly into any category.

Fiona stiffened. It wasn’t the first time her thoughts had turned, unbidden, to Lord Zastelar. She ruthlessly suppressed the impulse to ruminate further on the topic.

  


* * *

  


A shadow darkened her doorway and Fiona glanced upward in irritation—she had dismissed her assistant, what was he doing back in her office? She gripped her datapad tightly in surprise—as if summoned by her earlier thoughts, the familiar figure of Lord Zastelar had appeared.

Thankfully Zas didn’t arrive wearing the rather intimidating robes she reserved for the council chamber, or the sinister mask that she wore with them. She never did when she visited Fiona’s office to torment her. Instead, she was wearing very elegant robes of dark gray trimmed in deep purple, the synthsilk billowing around her as she moved. 

She pushed the hood back from her perfectly coiffed hair, smirking at Fiona and leaning against the door frame. “Mmm, Chief Quinn, you’re a sight for sore eyes. Especially after spending four hours pretending interest in windbags like Ravage.” She covered her mouth with a languid hand in an exaggerated yawn. “How he gets anything done when he can never get to the point is beyond me.”

Fiona felt her cheeks grow warm at the Sith’s forwardness—the woman seemed to delight in trying to fluster her, but so far the most she had gotten was a blush. Unlike her more easily rattled brother, Fiona prided herself on her unshakeable composure. The problem was that Darth Imperius seemed to take her unflappability as a challenge rather than a deterrent.

“I’m sure I don’t know, my lord,” Fiona answered—it was one thing for Sith Lords to disparage each other, but she knew better than to speak out of turn. Most of the time, at least. She hadn’t risen in the ranks of Imperial Intelligence for nearly three decades by not guarding her tongue.

“Hey, heard that you were trying to get some information from that old stick, Mortis.” She straightened from the door frame, a faint hint of floral perfume wafting ahead of her as she moved toward Fiona’s desk. “I think I can help with that.” Zas drawled, resting one hip on the edge of the desk, her smile mischievous and inviting. Fiona found her eyes trailing over the curve that the Sith woman’s body made, then clenched her teeth as she caught herself and tore her gaze away. “I know you haven’t eaten, and I’m starving. Let me take you to dinner and we can talk about it.”

Outrage blossomed in Fiona’s breast, wrapping its fingers around her throat and making her sputter. Did this Sith truly think that she would compromise herself in such a way? Suddenly all the pieces fell into place—Darth Imperius had been stopping by for weeks, making advances—and now she saw her opportunity to take advantage. Did she think that her dignity—her self-respect—was so easy to buy?

“You may have been able to bribe others this way,” Fiona hissed once she could speak, her voice soft and deadly, “but I am _not_ for _sale_.”

The smile slid away and an expressionless mask snapped into place. The other woman stood abruptly, one hand reaching into a hidden pocket on her robe. Imperius dropped a data crystal on Fiona’s desk, turned, and left without another word or glance at Fiona.

Fiona frowned, her heart racing as her mind caught up to what her body already knew—she had just spoken disrespectfully to a member of the Dark Council. But she didn’t feel quite as terrified as she thought she should—something about Darth Imperius didn’t inspire that kind of fear in her.

 _It’s just the illusion of familiarity_ , she told herself, _because she stops by so often. She could execute me and not a single question would be raised._

But as she lifted up the data crystal, the thought just didn’t ring true.

She walked over to the console and inserted the crystal—and the furrow in her brow deepened as names, numbers— _prisoner identification numbers_ —scrolled by on the screen.

The incarceration records.

“Damn it,” Fiona said softly, turning on her heel and walking out of her office.

  


* * *

  


The pirate—officially listed in Imperial records as a defector, but Fiona knew his past—-was pulling on a light jacket as he answered the door.

“Huh, Quinn. That explains a lot. Yeah, she’s in the study, I think you’ve been there, yeah?” He turned without waiting for an answer. “Hey, Zavros, Drellik, Khem, let’s go!”

Revel gestured for her to enter, though Fiona got the impression that it was more to get her out of the way than to be hospitable. Lord Zastelar’s crew streamed past her and out the door, chattering excitedly as they moved.

Ashara laughed, “Khem, you heard Zas. You can go to the bar with us or spend the evening helping Thirteen in her lab.”

A trickle of fear ran down Fiona’s back as the hulking figure walked by, but she stood her ground. The dashade paused to glare briefly at her, but followed the others out the door. Once they were gone, Fiona released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and looked around.

The penthouse, as always, was spotless, the decor so tastefully restrained that it could have been featured in a course on Imperial interior design. The dominant color was a soothing gray with enough touches of black, gold, and purple to feel elegant rather than dull. 

Fiona walked down the hallway to the study. As always, the elegant lamps that lit her path caught her eye. Lord Zastelar’s taste for aesthetics was one of the many things that made her difficult to categorize. Fiona approached the open door and glanced inside.

Zas wasn’t at her desk. Instead, she was sprawled on the soft gray leather couch, feet resting on one arm, cradling a box with a logo that Fiona recognized as a producer of very fine handmade chocolates. As Fiona watched, Zas held a dark truffle up, examining it dejectedly before popping it into her mouth.

Fiona knocked on the door frame, not wanting to enter without permission.

Zas bolted upright, instantly shoving the box under the fine woolen throw draped on the back of the couch. Her cheeks turned a darker green as her feet hit the floor, almost like a child caught red-handed at some mischief. “Um, Chief Quinn.” Her eyes darted around as if trying to find someplace to look that wasn’t the other woman. “Um, look, if you’re still upset, I’m...I’m sorry. I...that wasn’t what I meant at all.”

Fiona furrowed her brow in surprise—she had never seen Lord Zastelar this unsure of herself—or, to be frank, anything less than confident. Fiona gritted her teeth and dug her fingers deeper into her arms—somehow the woman’s apology made her own that much harder to voice. But she kept her shoulders straight and looked into Lord Zastelar’s violet eyes.

“My lord,” Fiona said, “I am the one who should apologize. I—I jumped to a false conclusion, based on what was clearly an incorrect assumption. When I accessed the data crystal, I realized my mistake.” She felt her cheeks color—she was not used to apologizing, particularly to someone so high above her own rank.

Zas fidgeted, the synthsilk robes whispering with the motion. “I just...wanted to help, and Mortis can’t ignore me the same way he does you. You don't look like people surprise you. Or at least not in a good way." She chewed her lower lip, still not meeting Fiona’s eyes. “And it’s not hard for me to talk him around.”

An unfamiliar feeling— _gratitude_ , she realized, and something else she couldn’t quite identify—began to coalesce.

“I’ve found it prudent to expect the worst, my lord. I’m never disappointed, and occasionally—very occasionally, I am pleasantly surprised,” Fiona said, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. “Thank you,” she added, her tone growing more gentle as she watched Lord Zastelar continue to worry at her full bottom lip.

Zas shrugged, hugging herself tightly, voice soft. "I...get carried away, sometimes, when I like someone. I...remember what it was like when no one ever surprised me with anything nice. Not until I was an apprentice, at least, and they wanted things from me.” She glanced sideways at Fiona briefly. “What's the fun of surviving this far if I can't surprise people I like?"

Fiona flushed, her mouth dropping open slightly. Lord Zastelar’s frankness was just as disarming as her teasing. The woman had freely given her the data she needed—she had no leverage over her anymore, but she still persisted in flirting with her. What was her goal? Her endgame?

“My lord,” Fiona said, “I—I don’t know what to say. I—I don’t—” Her jaw clenched—she was stuttering nearly as much as her fool of a brother.

There was something in Lord Zastelar’s eyes that made her feel warm under her collar. Fiona’s gaze fell to the Sith Lord’s full lips—she felt her stomach flutter as she tried to reign in her unexpected reaction to the woman’s close proximity. And then it occurred to her that _she_ was the one who had unconsciously closed the gap between them, and she felt her face grow even hotter.

Zas was chewing her lower lip again, eyes dropping. “I always flirt, I can’t help it. I mean, at first it was just fun; you’re very attractive. But you’re not scared of me, you know, and you’ve never talked to me like I’m an idiot.” She shrugged. “People still say the same things they did when I first landed on Korriban, they’re just more circumspect in how they word them now. ”

She finally met Fiona’s eyes, and she must have seen something in her face, because she lifted a hand to Fiona’s face, her touch delicate. When Fiona didn’t pull away, she leaned closer and brushed her lips with the lightest of kisses, her eyes questioning.

Fiona stiffened—Zastelar’s lips were so soft, the kiss feather-light, but it sent a current of electricity down her spine.

  


Her fingers splayed uselessly in the air for a moment in her shock—and then she leaned closer, catching the Sith lord’s full lower lip between hers. She buried her fingers in the woman’s dusky purple hair, wishing that her hands weren’t gloved. Zastelar made a soft noise into her mouth as Fiona brushed her thumb on her cheek, just below her ear. 

  


Zastelar was only a little taller than her, so it wasn’t difficult for Fiona to loop her arm over her neck and deepen the kiss as she moved closer, the woman’s soft, lush body pressing against hers. After a moment, they were forced to break apart for air, but Fiona didn’t move away. She had no idea what had come over her—but the one thing she did know was that she didn’t want to stop.

The mischief had returned to Zas’s smile, drawing another flutter from low in Fiona’s belly. “My crew won’t be back for a couple of hours, but I think maybe we’d both prefer it if they don’t barge in?” Eyes never moving from Fiona’s, she waved one hand vaguely toward the door, and it slid silently shut.


	2. Reflections

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Such a little thing as a hairbrush. Fiona would never have imagined how complicated it might be to someone else. Or what she might see reflected in her mirror.
> 
> Mention of past slavery/abuse, non-explicit

* * *

(Lovely art by @chaosandwonder, thank you!)

Fiona Quinn stared into the mirror, regarding the tangled mess of her hair with bleary-eyed irritation. She sighed and reached into her overnight bag, digging blindly through the contents as she searched for the smooth wooden handle of the brush. After a few moments, she frowned and scooped the bag up into her lap. A few fruitless seconds later, her frown deepened.

Zas emerged from the ‘fresher, her hair artfully tousled and makeup impeccable. She somehow managed to even make the dressing robe she was wearing look fashionable. Fiona felt her cheeks begin to grow warm--she always tried to put herself together before Zas finished so she spent as little time as possible seeing Fiona in such a state. But there was no helping it.

“Zas,” she said, her voice tense with embarrassment, “do you have a brush I can use? I seem to have...forgotten mine.” 

Zas stared back at her in the mirror, biting her lip without answering for a moment. “I...I don’t like hair br...brushes, I’m sorry.” She went to her own vanity and rummaged in a drawer to extract a small box with several combs of different size and coarseness, still unopened, and offered it to Fiona as a distant flash of lightning brightened the room, still worrying at her lower lip. “Would a comb do?”

“Yes, thank you,” Fiona said quickly, taking the box and selecting the comb with the widest teeth. She glanced back over at Zas as she began to run the comb over her tangles—the Sith seemed uncomfortable, and she hardly needed to apologize over not having a brush. Fiona had forgotten her own, after all.

She opened her mouth to say as much, and then grimaced when the comb pulled a loose tangle into a tight knot. Her hairdresser always told her she was too impatient with her hair—usually while trimming her numerous split ends—but it was so hard to go slow when she just wanted it to _obey_. She gave up on that section and moved to the crown of her head, where her cowlick was completely unresponsive to the comb. She could see Zas’ reflection in the mirror—saw her hand move and mouth open as Fiona gave the comb a rough tug. But then she settled back down, hands gripping her robe.

Fiona needed her pomade to tame the cowlick, but it was, of course, with her brush. She let out a huff of frustration when the comb snagged yet again on a tangle, and she gave it a sharp yank.

Zas approached the vanity silently, watching as the storm rumbled in the distance, then asked, “May...May I try?”

Fiona paused in the middle of another rough tug on her hair, taken aback at the request. Something _was_ bothering Zas—the subtle quiver in her voice was as telling as the way her hands were nervously clenched. And there was the matter of a member of the Dark Council, a Lord of the Sith helping her with her hair.

“I—are you sure?” Fiona asked, lowering the comb from her head.

“For you?” Zas said, “yes.”

Fiona felt the corner of her lips turn up, and held the comb up to Zas. 

Zas took the offered comb, her other hand smoothing Fiona’s dark hair gently. Then she slowly began to run the comb through it in long strokes, from the crown of her head to the ends. She seemed to have a second sense for knots and tangles, pausing just as she reached them. It was almost as if each strand was being beguiled into cooperating, never once pulling her hair.

In no more than a minute, Fiona’s hair was untangled, even the cowlick at the front magically lying down tamely under the other woman’s coaxing. Then she took the tie from the vanity, put it around her wrist, and began to comb Fiona’s dark, soft hair back from her forehead, catching it up into a tail. She carefully twisted the tie around it before moving the hairpins so they were within reach.

Fiona leaned back in the chair, the gentle tugging on her hair lulling her eyes half-closed. Even her hairdresser had been forced to wrangle it into obedience at some point—but Zas’ touch was skillful, practised. It felt more pleasant than she had ever expected. She had almost forgotten her instinctive objection to a Sith Lord performing such a service for her.

“You’ve done this before,” Fiona said, opening her eyes to look at Zas’ reflection. “You’re far too good at it.” 

The Mirialan woman shrugged in the mirror. “I learned when I was very young.” For a few moments, only the rumbles of distant thunder from the early morning storm broke the silence. 

Fiona could see Zas’s eyes fixed on what she was doing, almost unblinking. Then abruptly, she asked, “Did you ever wonder how I ended up on the Dark Council so young?” 

Fiona’s brow furrowed—while she had indeed pondered the question before, she didn’t understand what hairdressing had to do with it. But she had learned that Zas sometimes preferred to sidestep into topics rather than walk straight into them—she liked to choose her own angles. 

“I have,” Fiona answered. 

“Wealthy Imperials often buy little alien girls who are pretty and charming and _obedient_ to raise with their daughters, to care for and entertain them.” She shrugged. “Such companions are also an investment. There are businesses in Kaas City that pay very well for pretty, charming girls for their very exclusive customers, girls who could be one of them...if they were human.” The rumbles from the storm seemed to be moving closer as she finished combing out the tail and began winding it into Fiona’s usual precise knot.

Fiona lowered her eyes, lips pursing. In her youth, she had thought slavery to be a necessary evil in the Empire. But once she started her career in Intelligence, the reality had proved so much more distasteful and unjust than she had been raised to believe. And Zas had lived it. Fiona’s chest felt tight, and she glanced up to meet the reflection of Zas’ purple eyes.

Zas was silent as if lost in thought, chewing her lip again before continuing. “I realized very young that if I wanted something desperately enough, focused hard enough, I could...I could call _something_ , coax it, tease it into helping me.” 

She stared intently at the knot to make certain every bit was tucked into place, hesitated, then added softly. “Hair bru...I...I never pull hair.” A lightning flash from the storm lit every hidden corner of the room.

Fiona felt a pang in her chest at the echo of old fear in Zas’ voice. Her mouth tightened as helpless, belated anger bloomed in its wake. There was nothing she could do now to interrupt whatever punishment Zas had endured as a child, other than to hope that whoever was responsible was dead. Fiona’s eyes narrowed. 

Zas shook her head briefly as if chasing some thought away as the storm rumbled directly overhead. “I found I could usually keep myself from being noticed, too. When I couldn’t make them forget I was there, I made myself appear charming and obedient...and very, very _young_.” She was picking up one hairpin at a time from the vanity, staring at the knot as if evaluating a battlefield and slipping it into place in the dark hair as precisely as a pilot docking a ship with an airlock.

“My tricks worked until I was almost fifteen. By then, my scars meant I wasn’t… _valuable_ enough to be sold for one of those businesses.” Zas allowed herself a little smile of satisfaction, her gaze unfocused. Another flash of lightning lit up the room.

Fiona raised one eyebrow—she was more than a little suspicious about the origin of those scars. But the idea of Zas making herself small, unnoticed— _obedient_ —was so offensive to her. She was Zastelar, Darth Imperius, a member of the Dark Council—powerful, brilliant, self-possessed. It was nearly impossible for Fiona to imagine her as that fourteen year old slave, fear-filled eyes staring from behind the fresh, raw stripes on her face.

“I was always told that girls couldn’t be sold to—to _those_ types of businesses until they were at least eighteen,” Fiona said, frowning. “Not that it makes it that much less of a disgrace.” 

Zas shrugged, eyes fixed on Fiona’s hair. “Officially, no. But slaves can’t testify in court, much less bring suit against an Imperial. How are those laws enforced? By who?”

Fiona’s frown deepened. “That’s something I had never considered. But it’s no less true for that.”

While Fiona had never quite reached the level of Imperial zeal that Malavai had exhibited from early childhood, she had believed what her father taught her. That the Empire represented order—cold, uncompromising order and the rule of law in a lawless galaxy. But the more she saw and learned, the more she was forced to admit that image of the Empire was a facade. An ideal. The reality was so much messier.

Zas picked up the next hairpin, again eyeing the knot of dark hair for weaknesses in its defenses as lightning brightened the room again. “When I got to Korriban, I realized that acolytes use the Force like a sledgehammer. Most Sith too, I’ve noticed. There’s a time and place for overwhelming power, of course, but they don’t have the control for anything delicate or the focus to direct a hundred tiny things at once. Like hair. They’ve never _needed_ to.” She paused to caress Fiona’s hair, each strand beguiled into place by her slender fingers.

Fiona glanced up at Zas’ reflection, feeling the skin on her arms tighten into gooseflesh—though whether it was from the Sith’s fingers gently moving through her hair or the reminder of her power, she couldn’t be sure. But Fiona was never afraid of her—or at least, not since she had truly begun to _know_ her.

And Zastelar had taken those experiences—the times in her life when she felt the most weak, the most powerless—and bent them to her will. Her purpose. Fiona was rather suddenly possessed by the desire to pull the Sith down into a kiss, but then Zas spoke again, her voice soft. 

“I confuse them. People know I was a slave. But everything about me---how I talk, behave, dress---tells their subconscious the opposite, and they respond to that. Nothing will _ever_ make them forget I’m not human, though. So, I learned to be terrifying too, when I need to be.” Lightning flickered again, quickly followed by a long low roll of thunder. 

“Did you know that even Acina is a little afraid of me? She watched Thanaton throw everything he knew at me and couldn’t touch my defenses. They don’t understand what I can do. And they don’t trust me. So now I have a reputation for being unpredictable and a little mad. ‘Will Lord Kallig be charming or terrifying today?’”

She delicately placed the last hairpin, then finally met Fiona’s eyes in the mirror, reluctantly, as if afraid of what she might see reflected there. 

Fiona felt her cheeks grow a little warm as she held Zas’ gaze—as another flash of lightning caught in the woman’s purple hair. 

“I don’t want to be either of those people. Not anymore. At least, not with you.” There was a loud crash of thunder as Zas lowered her hands from Fiona’s hair, now perfectly styled.

She chewed at her lower lip, purple eyes locked with blue in the mirror. “I’ll get a brush for you to leave here if you tell me what kind you like.”

“No, I—I could get a spare one and keep it here,” Fiona said, gesturing to one of the empty vanity drawers, “if—if that’s alright.” She felt her heart begin to race a little—leaving something here suggested a commitment to be back. And she wanted that—if Zas did. 

Zas’s teeth released her lower lip, a slow smile spreading like the sunlight that was trying to break through the stormclouds outside the window. “You can leave anything you like here.” There was also a trace of relief in her eyes, her shoulders sagging as if they had been holding in tension.

Fiona allowed herself a small smile in answer and rose to her feet, wrapping one arm around Zas and pulling her into a kiss. The Sith made a gentle, pleased sound against her lips, and after a moment Fiona broke away, tightening her arms around Zas’s soft form.

Zas’s cheeks flushed a darker green, relaxing into the rare display of affection. But her eyes sparkled with mischief as she lightly brushed her hand across Fiona’s hair. “Though I do have to admit I rather enjoy playing with your...hair myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sleepswithvillains and I have been throwing around the idea for this almost since we posted the first chapter, "The Invitation." Their relationship develops from that first kiss slowly, and at this point, Fiona and Zas were staying with each other fairly often, but hadn't yet begun to stake a claim that there would be a next time by leaving anything behind. And I just have a thing for the quiet intimacy of one person in a relationship fixing the other's hair, and the care they would take with it.


End file.
